


Mothers Know

by shutterbug



Category: Succession (TV 2018)
Genre: Canon Compliant, Canon Universe, Comfort, F/M, Family, Gen, Marriage, Mother-Son Relationship, husband, mother - Freeform, post-episode, son - Freeform, unhealthy relationship, wife - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-28
Updated: 2019-08-28
Packaged: 2020-09-28 20:10:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,376
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20431745
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shutterbug/pseuds/shutterbug
Summary: After suffering an intense humiliation in Hungary, Tom gets a comforting visit from his mother.





	Mothers Know

Tom would never admit it to anyone--except perhaps Mondale--but he knew what it was like to, in the words of Buzz Lightyear, “fall with style.”

When the doorman had called up to say a dusty-carrot-haired, sixty-something year-old woman had arrived with a suitcase and had calmly stated that “don’t-cha-know my son lives up there, at the top?” Tom had dropped the muffin in his hand and had nearly catapulted himself down the stairs. In that moment, it was the closest he had ever come to “flying.” 

Once his forward momentum had stopped, the surprise and relief that had coursed into every capillary of his body almost made him collapse to the floor when he laid eyes on his mother. He could have, too--he felt his knees buckle--but she wrapped her arms around him and held him upright. At least for now, here, in the lobby. 

He silently took her suitcase and led the way to the elevator. There, he remained silent, partly because the thorny knot in his throat kept his words suppressed. 

But they tumbled out of him as soon as they reached the kitchen. “Mom.” He abandoned her suitcase at one end of the island and wound his arms around her shoulders. “Mom,” he repeated, his voice strangled, high-pitched, and shaky. “I’m so--sur_pris_ed. But I'm so, _ so _happy to see you. I didn’t know you were here.” 

“I wasn’t supposed to be,” she said, her hands patting his back. She did that when he was a baby, patted his back--steady, rhythmic, regular pats. “But I was able to move around a few clients and catch the first plane this morning.” 

He pulled away to look at her, puzzled. “Why?”

“Oh, sweetie.” She tilted her head, a sad smile at her lips, and squeezed his hands. “Mothers know when their babies need them.” 

Tom couldn’t pinpoint whether it was the word “babies” or “need,” but a sharp, heavy force seemed to split open his chest, and his desperate attempts to hold his breath failed as he leaned forward and let his forehead fall to her shoulder. Every breath that escaped him did so with a cry or thin, airy noise. Ill-befitting a chairman of a major news division--a man of power--but he didn’t care, not when his mother rubbed his back and pulled him close, kissed his cheekbone. A wordless transfer of all of her comfort and care. 

His heartbeat slowed. The uneven, fast pace of his breaths slowed, too. And the roadblock of rejection--everything that, in the last forty-eight hours, had signaled to him that he could never hope for anything but second-best--faded away. 

He had called his mother the day after. The day after what had amounted to--to date--the worst of his life. When she’d answered, he’d ended the call. He’d thrown his phone across the room, where it had slid face-up across the carpet. He’d stared at it a moment later when it vibrated--his call returned immediately. He had never called her back. They hadn’t spoken, until now. 

“How did you know?” 

“A sixth sense,” she said, guiding him to the sofa in the adjacent living room. She glanced into each corner of the room, into each hallway and open space, then turned compassionate, soft eyes toward him. “Where’s Shiv?” 

A fresh wave of despair and shame crested over him. His breath stopped somewhere in his throat. His lips opened and closed like a fish, a guppy--a mute, tiny guppy, which hoped it wouldn’t be eaten by a massive, powerful fish, or shark, or whale. 

Whatever. The point was, he was the guppy. He would always be the guppy. He knew that now. 

He shook his head, tried to shrug and failed--at both, possibly; he was, at that moment, oddly disassociated from his body. 

“It’s okay, sweetie. It’s okay.” 

A breath of air clawed its way down his throat and into his lungs, as if of its own accord. He hardly knew how to _ breathe _ anymore, never mind answer _ quest_ions. Perfectly reasonable questions. 

This family--he almost _ snort_ed. Family. _ Ha. _Family. 

Well. Whatever you called them, this family had almost _ pois_oned him. It had made him afraid to trust his own _ moth_er. He had to force himself to relax, to convince himself that his mother--his own fucking _ moth_er--was worried about him. Genuinely--a word that could never, as far as he could tell, be applied to this family--worried about him. 

But, as she smoothed the hair just north of his temples, he sagged into the touch. A touch that registered as sincere in a way that his interactions with the Roys--that _ sex _with Shiv--never had, and he met his mother’s eyes. 

“No. No. It’s not. I mean. I..._I’m _not.” Something released in him, broke through, and he folded forward, grasping for a nearby throw pillow. “I’m not okay.” He whispered the words into the pillow, unable to look up at his mother. 

“I know, honey.” She curved her hand over the nape of his neck. “But it’s okay.” 

He forced himself upright, then. He searched his mother’s eyes. “Is it?”

“I don’t know. It _ could _be.” 

He threw the pillow to the far end of the sofa. 

“You know,” Mom continued, her voice pointedly lighter, more hopeful. “I talked to Sally Florence last week. Her daughter asks about you. Evette. You remember Evette.” 

He nodded. He remembered Evette. Evy--her preferred name. She was feisty. Intellectual. Cultured. High-brow, for Minneapolis. And considerate. Kind. He’d remembered that, too. Once, when he and the Fly Guys had miscalculated their bus fare, Evy had sidled over them, eavesdropped, and, without comment, had provided each of them with the cash to reach their desired destinations. No fuss. No shame. No humiliation. No threats of _ you-owe-me-or-else. _

Tom had wanted to kiss her then, as he’d taken her money. She wasn’t unattractive, for Minneapolis or anywhere else. She walked with confidence. She had thick, curly blonde hair. She had a straight-toothed, broad, _ warm _smile that seemed to wrap itself around your heart. Then your dick, promising sincerity, fun, charm. And pleasure. 

Yes, he remembered Evy. 

“Yeah,” he said--a fraction of a whisper. 

Several minutes passed in silence. Without movement, except for the expansion and contraction of their bodies as they breathed. 

Finally, she said, her words as solid as an ancient oak, “You don’t have to stay here. You can come home. Anytime. You know that, right?”

Honestly, he didn’t--he hadn’t. But he welcomed the invitation. The information. And he nodded, as if he had known the whole time. 

“I want you to be happy,” she added, crouching down to look him in the face. She squeezed his shoulder. “I don’t care about anything else.” 

He nodded again. “I know.” 

Another handful of silent minutes passed. 

Then, Tom pushed himself off the sofa and said, “We should check you into a hotel.” 

She shook her head. “No, no. I can manage.” 

“I know,” he said, already gripping the handle of her suitcase. “But I want to. And I want to...come with you.” 

In his whole life, Tom could count the number of times when he had stopped his mother short. When he had frozen her. Stunned her into silence. She was a smart, resilient lady. 

He smiled, full and open-mouthed, when she gaped at him. “It’s not a dream,” he reassured her, leading her toward the door. “I need to...uh, I need to get away for a bit. I think.” 

With a soft grin, she followed him. 

“What do you think about Chicago?” he asked. 

“Oh,” she replied. “So, _ away_-away?” 

He breathed a laugh. “Yeah.” 

“Do you want to pack anything?” 

He shrugged, then shook his head. Negative. “I’ll buy what I need when we get there.” 

“Okay.” 

“Okay.” 

When the elevator doors closed, his mother asked, “Should I give Evy a call?” 

“_Mom_.” He felt like a teenager. But he already felt lighter than he had in months. “No. Fuck. No.” 

But he’d already made a mental note to call her from the airport. You know, just to see what she was up to. 


End file.
